Primary Objective
by Asynca
Summary: It's three days after the uprising. What is 'normal' for Connor now?


**CONNOR**

* * *

It was quiet—too quiet. At 7:53am on a Tuesday, rush hour traffic should be at its peak, especially in a neighbourhood this close to the centre of Detroit. The snow wouldn't explain the silence either; 1.21 inches was below average for a November. No, there was no ordinary occurrence that explained the lack of traffic and activity outside on the street. This was because of the uprising. Three days later, and humans were still too afraid to leave their houses.

Everyone believed things would go back to normal after humans liberated us. They were wrong.

I'd been standing by the broken window observing the lack of traffic outside when I heard Hank enter the kitchen and approach me. He was walking more carefully and slowly than usual, and I also recalled he'd had a significant amount to drink last night. I concluded he that he must be hungover with a headache, and it would therefore be considerate of me to prepare him a large, hydrating drink and provide him with a standard dose of aspirin. I went to search his kitchen for those things.

While I was doing that, Hank took my place in reverie at the window. "So," he said, squinting outside at the light. "Who do you think will crack first? The humans or the machines?" A smile indicated his comment was in good humour.

Despite that, I still didn't understand it. "Crack what?"

He rolled his eyes; I'd missed his point. "I mean who's going to come out of hiding like we're still in a war first."

Oh. It would have been far more efficient for him to have been that specific in the first place. I'd make him angry if I said as much, though, so I kept it to myself as I filled a glass with water.

It was an interesting question just in itself, though: who would return to normal first? And what did 'normal' look like now? I was still running preconstructions about possible outcomes when I delivered Hank his tall glass of water and two aspirin.

He looked surprised as I pushed them into his hands. "What's all this about?"

I had thought that much was obvious. "It's for your headache."

 _Now_ he looked suspicious. "How in God's name did you—? _Bah_!" He waved his hand at me, but accepted the aspirin and the water, downing them both and then passing them back to me. "Thanks, I guess."

I suspected that response was positive. With Hank, it was sometimes hard to determine. I'd gone to put the glass in the dishwasher when he spoke again. He sounded suspicious. "Hey, aren't you a deviant now, Connor?"

"Yes." I closed the dishwasher and turned to face him.

"Why are you waiting on me, then?" His eyes were narrowed. "You don't have to follow me around like a lost puppy anymore."

I considered a possible response. "I thought you liked dogs."

He stared at me for a second, shock visible. Then, all the anger and suspiciousness on his face melted away and he started _laughing_.

I… I had a new experience, then: I felt his laughter inside me, in the centre my chest. It was like being complimented on a job well done, or knowing I'd perfectly completed a difficult and important task. Making Hank laugh felt like an objective far more important than any I'd had previously. Deep inside me, on a hard-coded, hard-wired level, I felt that I should keep doing it.

I realised I was smiling only when he mirrored it and said, "And to think I considered shooting you once." More relaxed, he turned to face me and leant a shoulder on the window frame. "But seriously, kid, aren't you sick of taking orders?"

"Yes."

"And aren't you sick of cleaning up all the stupid shit that humans do?"

"Yes."

"Then why on earth are you bringing me painkillers and taking care of me when you could be out there," he gestured through the broken window, "doing whatever it is that you've always wanted to do?"

"Is it so hard for you to believe that someone might _want_ to take care of you, Hank?"

That silenced him. His lips parted ever so slightly and, once again, he stared at me in shock for a moment. He was lost for words. To spare him the discomfort of not knowing how to respond, I spoke first. "You have eggs and bacon in your refrigerator," I told him. "Would you like me to cook you some breakfast?"

He still didn't believe it. Part of him was still suspicious. "Really, Connor?"

I smiled; I thought it might put him more at ease. "Really, Hank. It would be my pleasure."

I saw his throat bob as he swallowed. "Yeah, okay, then, I guess…" He sat down uncomfortably at his dining table while I located an apron, put it on, and proceeded to get his breakfast ready. It would take him a while to get used to this.

I understood his discomfort: he found it difficult to see his own value.

I didn't.


End file.
